"Just make sure I'm off the phone and on my way to church in time for service," he says from his home in Mitchellville, Md. And what church might that be?

"No place in particular. I just go somewhere to sit. Wherever."

This from a man who served time for armed robbery of a McDonald's. Who once shot a man in the chest for dissin' his girlfriend. Who, as a 14-year-old, took part in the gang rape of a teen-aged girl.

But that was all before a three-year prison stint and plenty of soul searching. This author has since been led not only to church, but to start penning his autobiography. The 39-year-old writer and reporter for The Washington Post will be at Books and Books in Coral Gables Friday, reading from his new tale. It's a personal portrait of anger and pain, one meant to reach out and speak to young black men.

"My first constituency is the brothers, young and old," he says. "I wanted to write a book that a brother anywhere, on the corner, in a penitentiary, on a college campus, could pick up and read, and find some of his experiences there."

But that doesn't exclude other readers, he's quick to say. "Many whites are reading the book, and my readings have been well-attended by whites. That's encouraging, because I know they are wrestling with this thing, trying to understand it, too."

This thing, to be exact, is the violence and self-hatred that has devastated entire communities and caused some advocacy groups to declare young black men "an endangered species."

McCall chronicles for readers how his emotions began to run hot, even as a child.

"At school, it was commonly understood that white folks considered grown black men to be boys. ... I began to pay close attention to racial nuances in my stepfather's interaction with [white) people. I didn't like what I saw. I didn't like the way he humbled himself when white folks were around. I grew to hate the sight of his big 6-foot, 2-inch frame kneeling, with a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head, pulling up crabgrass while one of those privileged white people stood over him, supervising the menial work. It looked too much like pictures of downtrodden sharecroppers and field slaves I'd seen.

"... That marked my realization of something it seemed white folks had been trying to get across to me for most of my young life - that there were two distinct worlds in America, and a different set of rules for each: the white one was full of the possibilities of life. The dark one was just that - dark and limited."

McCall clearly describes the results of his personal rage: from rape to drug dealing, from brawling to burglary, he did it all. He takes responsibility for his actions, but tries to understand now why he did what he did.

The book opens with the brutal beating of an unfortunate white boy who wanders into Cavalier Manor, McCall's old neighborhood in a black section of Portsmouth, Va.

"[Beating up) white boys like that made us feel good inside. ... It felt so good we stumbled over each other sometimes trying to get in extra kicks or punches. When we bum-rushed white boys, it made me feel like we were beating all white people on behalf of all black people. We called it `getting back some get back,' revenge for all the --- they heaped on Black people all these years. They were still heaping hell on us, especially on our parents."

Not that Cavalier Manor was a slum. McCall was raised in a working class world - middle class by black standards. In Cavalier Manor, the streets were named Belafonte Drive, and Basie Crescent. As a child, the homes seemed impressive, the lawns immaculate. He even recalls the stately white brick pillar entrance to the community.

His was not a broken family, either. His parents were strict; his stepfather worked two jobs. So why did he choose such a life?

"I had begun internalizing the self-hatred," McCall says. "My first real connection with the white world came when I went to a white elementary school. They really, really got the message across to me, that I was despised and hated in this world," says McCall, the only African American in his elementary school class.

When he sat near other children, they would move away, "as if my dark skin were dirty, hideous."

Nobody talked to him. Instead, they would say to each other, "You know, I hate niggers," when he was within earshot.

"Think about the power of the subconcious. Little kids draw conclusions without even knowing they are doing it," McCall says. "I figured, if people hate me this strongly, then maybe I'm worthy of being hated. That's not how we think as adults, but as children, we can't ward off that kind of hatred."

Even before attending school, however, he was picking up messages about his worth.